as
brought to Mr. Blythe. It is now before me, and I transcribe, from its
page, with a vivid recollection of the scene now referred to, one of the
solemn stanzas of that touching anthem:--

"The hour of my departure's come,
I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord! let troubles cease,
And let thy servant die in peace!"

Mr. Blythe breathed, rather than sung the hymn, in the notes of
Luther's hundredth psalm; and he did it with the accompaniment of
tremulous and broken accents from all around the couch. The tears of
unutterable sorrow were shed by all, save my mother, whose grief could
not find a vent in tears. The voice of psalms was quenched amid the sobs
which burst from every heart; and, during the singing of the last
portion of it, the pious man who guided these orisons, sympathized so
deeply in the passion of lamentation which encompassed him, that his
accents were scarcely audible. The overpowering scene was closed by a
brief and pathetic prayer to the Most High, that to His dying servant he
would "stretch out His everlasting arms," and "to the friendless prove a
friend."

A few hours more, and the scene of life had passed away from the mortal
vision of William Douglas. I saw him die. It was the first deathbed I
had ever seen. There are many occurrences in life which fill the mind
with awe; but I have never been conscious of any emotion so profound and
solemn as that which possessed me during the last day of my father's
life. I witnessed the expiring flame in those dread moments when time is
blent with eternity, and when the last sigh seems to waft the immortal
spirit into a state of existence of which no adequate conception can be
formed. After all was over, and the breath of life had fled, I could not
believe my senses, that the prop of my affections was gone from my love
and my embrace, and that all which remained on earth of my father,
protector, and gentle monitor, was a lifeless wreck on the shore of
time. The world appeared to my young eye and heart as a wide scene of
mere darkness and desolation.

I will not dwell on subsequent events. The funeral obsequies performed,
the family councils were of a melancholy description. As to worldly
matters, it was ascertained that there was very little debt--not more
than could be fully paid by the current stipend and other limited
means; but, beyond this, all was a dreary blank. The only means of
subsistence to which my widowed moth